


Of Blades and Bastards

by Middleearthian



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Idk what i'm doing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7426156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Middleearthian/pseuds/Middleearthian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ohhhh, but you are a stubborn one. Quite like your father, the famously honorable Ned Stark. And yet his honor never prevented him from fathering a bastard, did it Lord Snow? And your honor won't prevent you from being flayed alive by a Bolton."</p>
<p>Summary: Following his triumphant victory at the end of the Battle of the Bastards, Jon Snow storms Winterfell. <br/>Unfortunately for him, Ramsay does not die, and he has taken Lord Snow captive. <br/>Torture ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Blades and Bastards

**Author's Note:**

> A wicked little ideal I concocted after watching Battle of the Bastards. I quite enjoy the notion of Jon Snow being forced to react to Ramsay's games. 
> 
> To be continued...

Shadows fell over Winterfell as the Westerning sun sank beneath the blood-stained valleys.   
  
Jon Snow stood his ground with a warrior's posture, battle-worn and wounded with the sting of sword and arrow, facing Ramsay Bolton. Together with Tormund and Wun-Wun, they stormed the fortress of Winterfell, hurling mud and blood against the Bolton flags lining the walls. It was symbolic. Today House Stark crushed House Bolton, and the North belonged to them. Now they stood face to face, Bastard against Bastard.  _We end this at last_ , Jon Snow thought, heart beating with equal parts anticipation and uncertainty. It was time to reclaim the home of his boyhood.  
  
With little warning to spare, Ramsay released his first arrow. The weapon flew swift and sure, aiming straight toward Jon's heart, but the latter lunged to grab the Mormont shield and block the violent blow. Meager remnants of the Wildling and Bolton army stood against the stone walls of the Castle, daggers wielded and arrows drawn tentatively. Another arrow flew, swifter than the first, but Jon was quicker.   
  
The bastard son of Ned Stark could feel anger burn inside him; white-hot wrath sparking in his gut and blooming throughout his entire body as he limped stoutly toward Ramsey. The piece of shit was smirking smugly, and that expression only flamed Jon's wrath. Here stood the man who tormented and raped his sister, the man who killed his little brother and flayed, killed, and tortured countless free-folk. He would make him pay.  
  
Jon lifted the shield, the proud Bear sigil raised high for all to see, before thrusting it down upon Ramsey, making the Bolton bastard soar into the air and skid into the muddy ground with the violence of the impact. All at once Jon felt a sharp pain pierce his thigh. Shock. Impact. He tripped and stumbled to his feet, gritting his teeth as pulsing heat seared up his leg. One of Ramsey's men had fired an arrow and pierced Ned Stark's son, bringing him to his knees. Sansa cried out his name. Tormund lurched forward to defend his comrade, but three of Ramsey's men rushed to hold him back.   
  
Looking toward his sweet sister, Jon lipped the words, "Run. Run. _Run."_ Her beautiful blue eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, were the last thing he saw before the world turned black.   
  
Darkness. Pain. Disorientation. Throbbing. Jon’s dark eyes fluttered open slowly, and he found that he could not move. He was bound hand and foot, half-nude and spread-eagled against a rude wooden cross. He recognized it at once. It was the cross of House Bolton’s flayed man sigil—a symbol representing all the anarchy and brutality that went with it. Rough wood scraped against his bare backside. Jon arched, laboring against ropes to stretch his cramped and sore muscles. In the musky darkness he could scarcely see anything, for the air surrounding him was thick with shadows. Only the faint orange glow of candlelight penetrated the darkness. Behind him he could hear water trickling, drip, drip, drip, from the stone ceiling, and rats scuttling from wall to wall.   
  
Fear seized Jon’s heart. He had won the battle, this much was certain—but _Sansa…_ had Sansa escaped? He closed his eyes and recalled his sister’s face; those sky-blue eyes filled with fear as she fought to obey her half-brother’s command to run. But she was an intelligent woman now. Thanks to her keen intuition and foresight, she had summoned the Knights of the Vale to sweep the war-torn valleys. That move had sealed victory when certain death would have seized Wildling, Mormont, and all other Northerners alike.   
  
Jon fought to convince himself that Sansa Stark had run. She _must_ have run. She was more privy to Ramsey’s sadistic tricks and games than he could ever be—and she knew exactly what she needed to do. As for Jon, he was Ramsay Bolton’s prisoner now—and the Bastard could only imagine what lay in store for him in his final moments in Westeros. He comforted himself with the knowledge that Winterfell now belonged to Sansa, Arya, and Bran. His Stark siblings could dwell in peace in the capital of the North, and it was the greatest comfort Jon could ever hope for. Upon his death, the Knights of the Vale and remaining Wildlings would end Ramsay and crush House Bolton. The Starks would rally the North to their side and produce heirs for generations to come.   
  
Yes; Jon Snow was ready to die.   
  
“My my, you’re looking pretty tonight, Lord Snow.” A light bloomed in the darkness, and behind it stood the shadowed face of Ramsay Bolton. He was dressed in his former clothes, thick with the scent blood and mud, and he held a candle up as he assessed the condition of his prisoner. His smile was crooked and sadistic. “You are quite the sight all covered in grime and blood. Though it would be far better is if it was your _own_ blood."   
  
Jon's grey eyes bore holes into the other's. His expression unflinching save for the hatred that danced across the lines in his face. Those dark brows furrowed , lips tightening obstinately. He was a gorgeous sight, Jon Snow, tied and bound, black hair tumbling in wild curls across his face, long-lashed and full-lipped, cheeks marred with cuts from the harrowing battle. Ramsay felt his stomach clench in sadistic anticipation as he drank in the sight of the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. _Oh_ the things he would do to him. He had every intention to keep his face pretty, but the bastard boy would not be wearing that smug expression for long.   
  
Jon's Northern voice broke through the silence then. And when he spoke, it was as a High Lord reprimanding a peasant.   
  
"You lost, Lord Bolton. You have no lands nor army, and none living or dead care about the survival of your House. The treachery of House Bolton has seen its day."  
  
He espied a sudden flash of murderous fury pass Ramsay's eyes, but a moment later it disappeared, as though it never happened at all. A devious smile curled across his lips.  
  
 "I am an honest man, Lord Bastard. I can admit defeat with dignity and grace." He placed a gloved hand to his chest in mock honor. "However, defeat me you have not. Not entirely. For as you see, I am standing here, and you are standing there." The Bolton removed a leather glove and rubbed his palms together. The flash of a knife sang out against his palm.   
  
"How exactly did that happen, _Lord Bastard?"_   
  
Jon's heart leapt at the sight of the knife. Ramsay intended to flay him. Not a surprise by any means. What were House Bolton's words? _\---Our Blades are Sharp---_ yet Jon could feel his heart racing as he braced himself for the pain that would follow. Many a sinister campfire song had been sung concerning the Bolton's barbarities. It was a secret to noone, from South beyond the Wall to King's Landing, that not a single House rivaled House Bolton in terms of savagery.   
  
Closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, Jon Snow prayed to the old gods and the new that his death would be a quick one.  
  
\------------  
  


"Open your eyes for me, pretty bastard. I wish to see your face at the first kiss of my flaying knife."

It felt like hours had passed. One of Ramsay's men had called him to assess urgent business, and it was well into the evening before he reappeared, giddy and wild-eyed with anticipation. Jon opened his eyes at Ramsay's command but turned aside. He was resigned to his fate; and that was more than could ever be said about the likes Ramsay Bolton. During the long, agonizing hours that followed Ramsay's disappearance, Snow had chosen to rest his fate into the hands of the gods.  He was overcome with determination that he would not lose his honor in the last mere hours of his life-- no matter how horrific the pain.

"Ohhhh, but you are a stubborn one. Quite like your father, the famously honorable Ned Stark. And yet his honor never prevented him from fathering a bastard, did it Lord Snow? And your honor won't prevent you from being flayed alive by a Bolton."

  
Ramsay's words were thick with mockery as he unstrapped a thick leather cord from his doublet and tied it tightly across the palm of Jon's hand, securing his wrists tighter against the crossbeams. Jon's fingers were calloused from the steel grip of his sword; a fact which drew a maniacal smile from Ramsey. Those fingers would not be calloused for long, he mused. With a surprisingly gentle hand he forced Jon's eyes to meet his own. Jon's expression was oddly free of fear; and there was something behind those translucent grey eyes that sent shivers through Bolton.  Jon possessed an unshakable honor and nobility that Ramsey could not put his finger on; but it disturbed him immensely. Never before had a man tied to a flaying cross displayed such a level of quiet courage and resolve. In Jon Snow, Ramsay Bolton found the part of him that had died long ago. A once vulnerable, honest young man who hungered to be a noble Bolton and bring pride to his father. That side of him was nothing more than a shadow now-- a distant memory swept far, _far_ away by cold Winter winds. Damn Jon Snow, and damn his honor. By all the gods, he would have the Stark bastard begging for his life by the end of the night. There would be no mercy. His death would be a slow, torturous gruesome one; and Ramsay would savor every moment of it.

Only then, after he gave the Bastard a thoroughly Hellish death, would he take back the North and trample _every_  remnant of House Stark that remained alive.


End file.
